


A Momentary Lapse of Reason

by moonblossom



Series: Fluid Dynamics [4]
Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Ableist Language, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots, M/M, Self-Loathing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 10:33:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/952048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Newton's fault, really. That Hermann is stuck on the floor of the Kwoon, feeling more than a bit useless and broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Momentary Lapse of Reason

**Author's Note:**

> Warning, there is a fair bit of self-loathing and internalised insults towards disabled persons in this story. If this sort of thing makes you uncomfortable, you might want to avoid reading it. But Newt will make it better, I promise.

The ceiling in the Kwoon, Hermann thinks, might just be the cleanest ceiling anywhere in the Shatterdome. Aside from the medical bay, of course. This is all supposition, of course. It's not often he gets to study the ceiling of any room in this much detail, except his own, and now more recently, Newton's.

The beams and vents are exposed, and yet hardly any dust has settled on them. There is rust, of course, but there is rust everywhere here. Almost as if someone had used it as an overarching decorative theme. Not that Hermann knows very much about interior decorating.

He's rambling, mentally. He knows he is. But anything is better than focusing on the crackling, shattering pain currently emanating from his hip. He wants to get up. He needs to get up. His watch is safely tucked inside his shoe, outside of the training mats, out of his reach. But he knows it must be at least three in the morning. Training matches tend to start at six, and he would really prefer it if he wasn't found lying in some broken heap by one of the wide-eyed and over-eager new trainees.

Wincing, he tries to roll over, tries to shift his weight onto his good leg. He's managed to get himself onto all fours, forearms and thighs trembling with exertion and the force of not crying out in pain. It's an utterly demeaning position, would be humiliating, but thankfully he is alone. He grits his teeth and wobbles slightly, trying to ease his bad leg up first, when he hears the heavy thunk of the door opening.

Startled and ashamed, Hermann tumbles back to the floor. He hisses and bites back a yelp as the pain radiates from his hip up to his spine, settling in at the base of his skull like some filthy parasite. He cannot even bear to look over his shoulder, to see who gets to laugh at him this time. He finds himself infinitely grateful for the dim illumination in here, thankful for his foresight to have left the bright overhead lights off.

"I've gotta say, dude, that pose did some great things for your ass." Of all the people who could have found him, why him? Why now?

Newton's voice is flippant, until he apparently comes to the realisation that Hermann is suffering, at which point he scrambles across the training floor without removing his shoes - the training masters would be livid if they found out - and drops to his knees. The hand on Hermann's back, which he supposes Newton intends to be comforting and soothing, is like a slap to the face.

"Leave me, Newton." He refuses to say please. "I would rather you not have to see me like this."

"Jesus, Hermann. What happened? Why are you even in here? And like it or not, I'm a part of your life now. That means I get to see the shitty parts too."

Hermann winces again and shifts his weight, presenting the scrawny line of his back, barely covered by the thin cotton vest he's wearing, to Newton. He can feel the hot, shameful prickle of tears building behind his eyelids, and manages to convince him it's because of the pain. It is absolutely not because he is mortified about being found like this by the one person whose opinion truly matters.

"I got to our – my room. You weren't there, and I knew you weren't in the lab. I went to your room, you weren't there. I got worried. I don't even know how the fuck I ended up in here, dude. Last place I would have thought to look."

Hermann manages to throw a hateful glare over his shoulder before the sharp pain pulls his head back around.

"Yes, of course, why would the useless bloody cripple be anywhere near the exercise area?"

There's a scuffling noise and a muffled thump, and Newton's lying on the floor now, facing Hermann. He can't bear to turn his head away. Can't bear it because it hurts too much. Can't bear it because despite himself, he wants to look at Newton. Newton with his stupid messy hair and his stupid affected glasses and his look of broken-hearted pity. Hermann blinks several times, trying to clear the tears from his eyes. If one trickles down his cheek and onto the floor mat, well, mercifully Newton has the decency – for once – not to say anything.

"What are you doing in here? Kind of a strange time for physiotherapy, and why the hell are you alone?"

Hermann manages to roll onto his back, the pain in his hip so crystalline and brittle that he digs his fingernails into the palms of his hands hard enough to draw blood. There's a familiar rattle from somewhere over his left shoulder, and suddenly Newton's fingers, oddly gentle, are pressing two painkillers to his lips. His brow furrows, and Newton just laughs, damn him.

"They're yours. I've always got a couple on me lately. Just in case, you know. Honestly, I thought I'd need them while we were fucking, but you know me – always with the contingency plans."

This earns him a chuckle, despite Hermann's best efforts to remain angry and quiet. "Newton, you have never had a contingency plan in your life." Rolling his eyes, he forces himself to sit up enough to swallow them dry. It's not pleasant, but it's not as if he's had no practice. The life of a chronic invalid.

"You still haven't answered my question. What the hell are you even doing in here anyway?"

Managing to pull himself into a proper sitting position, all his weight braced on his good side, Hermann throws a withering glance at Newton. He gestures sarcastically to his leg, and then to his cane, waiting just out of reach off the floor mat.

"Why now? You should be in bed. You should be in my bed."

The fondly proprietary but casual way Newton talks about Hermann, about their relationship, is still strangely foreign and exciting. As though it's simply a foregone conclusion, as if the natural state of things is not _Hermann_ and _Newton_ but simply _HermannandNewton_.

"I didn't want to inconvenience anyone."

"Bullshit, you didn't want anyone to _see you_."

There's more truth to that statement than Hermann is willing to admit. He just stares resolutely at the ink on Newton's left arm. Between the waves of pain – diminished now, but still incredibly unpleasant – and the lack of sleep, it almost looks as though the tattoos are moving. Hermann blinks and shakes his head, trying to clear it.

"How long has this been going on, Hermann? Does the doctor know? Are you even supposed to be... well... whatever it was you were doing?"

Newton's shifted position again, so he's sitting immediately behind Hermann, their backs barely touching. He may be an idiot sometimes, but he's an incredibly perceptive idiot. Grateful, but unwilling to admit it, Hermann relaxes slightly, leaning on Newton for support. Newton says nothing, but acknowledges it by reaching backwards and patting Hermann on the arm.

"Eleven days. Nights, rather. Usually before you leave the lab."

He's glad he can't see the flicker of comprehension on Newton's face. It has been exactly twelve days since he first barged into Newton's room in his pyjamas, aroused beyond all comprehension.

"You're an idiot, you know that?" He can feel Newton's shoulders shaking in muffled laughter, but somehow it doesn't hurt. He's not laughing at Hermann. Not really.

"I know you pretend not to care, Newton, but I've seen how much time and effort you put into making your hair look as though you put no time and effort into it. I've seen you surreptitiously adjusting your tie to make it look just so dishevelled. You may pretend to be above vanity, but we both know that not to be the case."

"So, because I'm a bit of a tit about the way I look..." Newton's voice is strangely deep, reverberating in his chest, and Hermann can feel it echoing through his back. It's a bizarrely intimate sensation, one Hermann finds himself wanting more of. "You thought you'd torture yourself?"

"What do you possibly see in me, Newton? A gimp who, according to general gossip, dresses like an old man and smells a bit off?"

"Dude, have you seen the way your face looks when you've figured something out on that stupid blackboard of yours? Have you seen your _brain_?"

This strikes Hermann as a particularly asinine line of questioning. Of course he hasn't. He doesn't bother dignifying Newton with a response. 

Hermann's startled as Newton's arms, bright and distracting, wind their way around his waist. They are still sitting back to back and the position must not be particularly comfortable, but Hermann is grateful for the warmth and the comfort, even if he refuses to admit it. Keeping one hand on the floor for support, he wraps the other around Newton's arm, resting his hand on top of Newton's. Their fingers intertwine, almost organically.

"Yeah, okay, sometimes you do look a bit like someone's grandpa. You scowl and you dress funny and you're always covered in chalk dust."

"If this is supposed to aid my self-confidence, Newton, it's doing a terrible job."

"Shut up and let me finish." Hermann can feel Newton laughing against his back again.

"But when one of your equations works out, when you have one of those obnoxious epiphanies you always have at the last minute..." Newton pauses, his voice warm and nearly reverent. "Shit, dude. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I really don't care about your preconceived notions of flaws and defects."

It takes a moment for Hermann to realise the strange noise he hears is his heart pounding furiously in his ears. He doesn't trust his ability to form words that won't be defensive and sarcastic, and for once in his life he keeps his thoughts to himself.

"If you want to keep working out because it will make you feel healthier, then I will happy to do it with you. If you discuss it with the medical team first. But if you're doing this out of some misguided concern that I don't find you attractive, then you're a bigger idiot than I thought."

"Thank you, Newton."

There's a bit of scuffling behind Hermann, and the dim Kwoon is flooded with a bright white light. Newton holds his phone out, the voice recorder feature active.

"I'm sorry, can you say that again? I don't think I hear it enough, and the novelty hasn't worn off yet."

Grumbling contentedly, Hermann prods his elbow into Newton's lower back. Gently, but not.

"Ow, my kidneys. God, your elbows are bony." Newton pauses and Hermann can feel him tense up. "Bony, and perfect. Now come on, I'm pretty sure you're late for being in my bed."

Newton gets up with a groan and a crackle – it's a comforting reminder that Hermann is not the only one here who is massively out of shape – and steps around, holding his arms out. Grateful, Hermann wraps his hands around Newton's lurid forearms, locking himself in place, and hoists himself up off the floor with his good leg.

There's another sharp pang through his hip as he tries to put weight on his bad leg, but Newton's there, silently, holding out his cane. When had he managed to go get it? Full of surprises, he is.

Hermann steadies himself with his cane and feels Newton's arm, warm and solid, bracing around his shoulders. He thinks this might just work, and takes a step, shifting his weight.

Next thing Hermann's aware of, he's lying flat on his back and the spots are clearing to reveal Newton's face, brow furrowed with concern.

"Do I need to take you to the medical wing?"

"No, absolutely not." This whole experience has been more than humiliating enough. The last thing Hermann needs right now is to be clucked over by the well-meaning but ultimately irritating white coats.

"Then I'm carrying you." Hermann opens his mouth to argue but Newton holds a hand up, cutting him off. "Either I'm getting a wheelchair and bringing you straight to the doctors, or I'm carrying you to my bedroom."

Hermann absolutely refuses to be shunted into a wheelchair and pushed around like a ham in a shopping trolley right now, so he nods in assent. Besides, it isn't as though there's anything unusual about this pain - nothing that needs to be examined. A chuckle escapes his lips as Newton squats down in front of him, back facing Hermann. Clearly he's intending a piggyback ride. At least it's not a fireman's haul, Hermann supposes.

"Does this mean I get to carry you over the threshold into my bedroom?" The joke masks the strain in Newton's voice as he hefts himself upright, overbalanced by Hermann's weight on his back. The trip back to Newton's quarters is a halting, lurching mess, punctuated by the occasional burst of giggles and pause for Newton to catch his breath. And somewhere along the line, Hermann realises it might be the most fun he's allowed himself to have in weeks. Aside from the sex, of course.

When they get to Newton's room, which honestly has more of Hermann's things in it than Hermann's own room does at this point – better than permitting Newton to spread his mess into two rooms – Newton lowers Hermann onto the bed. The care with which he does it nearly breaks something fragile and intangible inside Hermann. For the first time in his memory, someone is treating him as something worthwhile and precious, not something inconvenient they'd feel guilty about breaking. The fact that the person doing it is _Newton_ continues to flabbergast Hermann.

Newton presses one gentle kiss to Hermann's forehead. Hermann was a bit worried Newton would want more physicality from him tonight, and he isn't sure he is up for it, but the kiss was sweet and chaste and a little bit ridiculous. Not remotely a precursor to other things.

"I think there's a pair of your ridiculous jammies somewhere here..." Newton prods one of the cresting waves of dirty laundry seeping out from under his bed.

"I think I'll be fine in my pants tonight." The absurd way Newton's face lights up is a thing Hermann wants to remember forever.

"Nothing to hide then?"

Hermann pauses, a frustrating jumble of thoughts filling his usually orderly head. "Not tonight, I don't think so. Not for a while now."

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a mildly angsty fluff piece and has turned into a bit of an accidental self-portrait. Nearly everything Hermann thinks is something I have thought about myself at one time or another. This was a lot harder to write than I thought it would be, and as such I am posting it entirely unbetaed. I feeling too vulnerable to ask someone to edit what basically amounts to my own personal feelings. Please do feel free to point out typos and whatnot, but generally I am not really looking for critique here.


End file.
